


Picking Up the Pieces

by gogolucky13



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, bucky barnes x reader - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Drinking, F/M, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29072751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogolucky13/pseuds/gogolucky13
Summary: Bucky chooses to stay in his tumultuous relationship knowing you’ll be there to pick up the pieces, until finally you’re not. (Modern AU)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Steve Rogers & Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

_Come over?_

The words glare at you. The harsh light of your phone and the blackness of the letters causing you to squint. Two words. Two simple words that mean nothing in any other context. It’s a seemingly innocent request, yet when it has to do with _him_ , it’s anything but. An unholy scripture, hard to ignore. Guilt and shame already clawing at your insides before you even respond because you never say no to him.

_Be there in twenty._

Standing from the couch, a sigh falls from your lips. This has been the pattern for nearly two years. Bucky beckons after another fight with his girlfriend, Natasha, and each time you willingly go to pick up the pieces.

Eyes downcast as you pass the mirror that hangs in the hallway towards your bedroom. Unable to look at yourself because you know it's wrong. But all sense and logic is lost and forgotten when it comes to him. And you hate yourself for it.

A soft knock to the door and you wait for Bucky to open it. Not even a second later, he stands before you with bloodshot eyes and a crease to his brow. He silently waves for you to come in. The air still feels stiff, tense from the fight you’re sure just took place.

“You alright?” You gently ask, slipping out of your jacket.

From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug and take another swig of the beer he’s holding.

“I’ll be fine.” His voice is flat, any trace of emotion tucked away between the syllables.

You quietly regard him for a moment. Seeing him like this—sad, frustrated, _heartbroken_ —has your chest tightening. You hate it. This isn’t the Bucky you remember from college.

Gone is the free-spirited young man who invited you to house parties and unashamedly flirted with you all night, eliciting school-girl giggles from glossed lips. Gone is the happy young man who made a bad day better with lame jokes and lousy attempts at home cooked meals just to see you smile.

This isn’t the Bucky you know.

The one you easily fell into a friendship with, that quickly turned to something more but never enough for you. And sometimes you wish you could take back that first night. Press the rewind button and do things differently.

Vodka and whiskey stained tongues entrancing and inevitably luring you both to bed. One drunken night turned into several then soon you were only drunk on each other.

It’s hard for you to recall a time when you weren’t actively sleeping with Bucky. The only time that sticks out where there was a lapse in your trysts was when he first started dating Natasha. Their relationship caught you off guard because you had no idea Bucky met someone or was even looking to date.

Always oblivious to your feelings for him, Bucky introduced Natasha to your group of friends after a few dates. They met at the gym, apparently, and you were forced to watch them _be_ together ever since then. It hurt, because Bucky appeared happy and you forever wished it was you who could bring him that much joy.

But you smiled through the pain, settling uncomfortably into the fact you’ll only ever be a _friend_.

The first time you slept together while he was still with Natasha you were both drunk. He called asking to meet up at the bar between your apartments, a place you frequent with friends, to talk about the fight they just had. Of course you went, always a shoulder to cry on for one another. Bucky was new to relationships, never having been with anyone that went more than a handful of dates. So, you drank and talked him through the why’s and the how’s of their argument.

Then one drink became five then became somewhere between seven and ten, and talks of relationship troubles were forgotten as you both caved to your old ways. You weren’t sure if it was the same for him, but being with him again after so long was like coming home. Elation flooded through you. Your heart bursting, because a part of you thought perhaps he’ll realize he’s happier without her and leave the relationship in the rearview mirror to travel this new uncharted territory with you.

But, the break up never came and the trysts carried on. The talks became repetitive, then not at all, because he knows how you feel about Natasha and their relationship. And you kept responding to his calls because there’s still a piece of your heart that holds onto the sliver of hope that maybe one day he’ll change his mind and pick you to be his forever.

“Why do you stay with her, Buck?” You question, the words slightly strained because you just want him to be happy. “It seems like you guys are always fighting.”

Bucky scoffs around the lip of his beer bottle, and you cross your arms defensively.

“Because I love her, Y/N.”

“Do you really?”

The muscle of his jaw twitches under his skin and his knuckles around the beer bottle are turning white as he stares back at you, an indiscernible look distorting his features.

“Yes.”

Shaking your head and rolling your eyes you turn away from him and let out a frustrated sigh.

“If you love her, then why do you still call me?”

“Don’t do this, please,” Bucky grits out from behind you. He’s not in the mood for this, you can tell, but your patience with the situation is starting to wear thin.

“Okay, sorry,” you mumble, turning back to face him after several moments.

Shamefully meeting each other’s stare, he offers you a beer and so begins the cycle. No less than ten minutes later, you’re tangled in sheets with skin on skin against your better judgement. Writhing and bare under the man you love, but who doesn’t love you back as anything more than a friend.

The two of you have done this so many times, it’s practically a rehearsed routine of heated touches, playful kisses, and wanton moans. Every curve, every crest, a familiar sight. Bodies moving together in muscle memory as you bring pleasure to one another.

Gasping for air, you clench around him, hands tightly gripping his shoulders as his face buries in your neck. Heavy pants fan across your skin, his thrusts are unrelenting—a physicality of his frustrations and desires. Your body a release, an escape. And you let him use it, take your dignity every time, because you love him and would do anything for him.

Tears begin to brim at your lower lashes feeling the rise of your climax tingling your limbs.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky gasps against your neck. You can tell he’s close and you push forward to reach your own peak. “Fuck, _Natasha_.”

Eyes flying open, shock washes over you like a bucket of ice water. The sound of Bucky’s moans are drowned out from the blood rushing in your ears, and any hopes of finishing alongside him are annihilated.

Needy hands grab your thighs as he releases inside the condom, and you wish the bed would just swallow you up and make you disappear. Tensing, you call upon every fiber in your being to not breakdown right there underneath him. When he pulls out and collapses beside you, there’s no indication from him that he realizes what he’s just done.

Feeling dirty and angry is not unusual after sleeping with Bucky, but this time, you’re absolutely disgusted and enraged. At yourself, at him, at the whole situation.

Shifting to get up off the bed, you have no plan to stick around for any post-sex chats or cuddles. Shaky hands grab for the clothes that were discarded in the heat of the moment; when you could forget and blissfully fool yourself he was yours.

“Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I, uh,” clearing your throat in an attempt to stop the bubbling of emotion, “I forgot to feed the cat.”

“He can’t wait another hour or so?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

The bed shakes when Bucky moves to clean up and pull on a pair of boxers.

Silently, and as quickly as possible, without drawing anymore suspicion to the change in your mood, you dress yourself. The threat of tears stings your eyes, your gaze fixed on the floor as Bucky walks behind you to the front door.

“I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you nod your head robotically, and give him a quiet hum of affirmation before slipping out the door without a second look.

The moment you’re back home, you head straight for a shower. Desperate to cleanse your body and mind of Bucky and your sins. Sliding under the sheets, skin raw from scrubbing away the impurities, you let the first tears fall when the lights go out and darkness envelops you.

The next time he calls for you, not even three days later, the words are the same, but everything is different.

_Come over?_

The deafening pant of ‘ _Natasha_ ’ rings in your ears, nausea rising from the pit of your stomach. With blurry vision you reread the message before a trembling finger deletes it. You place the phone face down on your coffee table, curling into yourself, tight arms around your knees as you cry. Again.

This time the call is easy to ignore, but no less painful.


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks. Three solid weeks you’ve been ignoring and avoiding Bucky. He’s tried to contact you, the myriad of unread messages and unanswered phone calls evidence of it.

_Come over later?_

_Y/n?_

_Everything okay?_

_Talk to me please_

_Hello??_

The messages and voicemails were concerned at first, but then turned impatient until he just gave up altogether. It was a minor relief when he stopped contacting you, allowing you time to move on and repair the pieces of your broken heart.

But you can’t avoid him forever.

Tonight you’re expected at Sam’s birthday party, a mutual friend of yours and Bucky’s from college. The whole week you’ve been mentally preparing yourself to see Bucky _and_ Natasha. The only solace you find in what’s to come is knowing you won’t be going alone.

Steve, an accountant from work, has asked you out to coffee a handful of times. And after your last rendezvous with Bucky, you finally agreed to it. A few coffee dates formed into a handful of dinner dates, and you’ve been able to use Steve as a distraction from the disaster that is your current relationship with Bucky.

A ding from your phone breaks your thoughts, and a small pang of guilt stabs at your heart when you see it’s from Steve. Guilt because as relieved you are to be done with Bucky, you’re still disappointed it’s Steve and not _him_.

_What time should I pick you up tonight?_

Thumbing out a response, you gather yourself to get ready for the long night ahead.

The place is dim, lights running along the wooden bar gives it a warming glow, however, you feel another but. The late September air is beginning to chill, and that feeling lingers on your skin when you spot them.

Natasha sits on one of the barstools towards the back of the party, Bucky beside her with a beer in hand. Reaching for Steve’s arm, you take a tight hold as you guide him in the direction of the group.

“Hey! You made it!” Sam beams with open arms. His less than subtle greeting has your palms sweating and heart pounding because now all eyes are on you.

“Of course, I made it, Sammy,” you reply through a smile and in the most nonchalant way you can muster. Giving him a hug, you pull away to introduce your date. “This is Steve, Steve this is everyone.” You flip a hand around as you speak, sure to avoid the steel blue eyes currently burning a hole in your being.

“Hey man, I’m Sam.” He offers a hand which Steve firmly takes.

“Nice to meet you.” Steve smiles, then turns to you. “Drink?”

As the night carries on, you’ve managed to keep your distance from them. Sipping cocktails and chatting with friends you haven’t seen in a while, and you’ve almost forgotten about the giant crack in your heart.

Almost.

When you stupidly go up to the bar alone, Bucky seizes his opportunity to corner you into talking to him.

“So Steve, huh?”

Refusing to look at him, you see from your peripheral he perches two arms on the bar beside you. When you don’t respond, he takes a swig of his beer before continuing.

“Doesn’t seem like your type.”

Bristling at his words, you turn to look at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, anger beginning to seethe its way into your voice. Annoyed at his comment and at yourself for breaking so easily.

Upturned lips accompany a shrug of his shoulders, and then he’s opening his body towards you. A strong forearm rests on the bar while his beer bottle is clasped between two hands in front of his toned stomach.

“Nothing, I’m just saying,” he replies, “Steve? The accountant?”

Bucky knew _of_ Steve. You had mentioned him in passing a few times, hating to admit it was an immature attempt to make Bucky jealous. But now…now Steve is providing a reprieve you never got from the man before you.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t. Just, why would you settle?”

Pulse quickening, you remind yourself this is a public place and take a calming deep breath through your nose to cool your tempered nerves. Otherwise, you would slap a hard hand across that infuriatingly beautiful stubbled cheek that’s had your lips against it countless times.

“Yeah, well, asshole isn’t my type either.”

An almost pained expression flashes across Bucky’s features at your harsh words, and you almost feel guilty for it. Almost.

Retrieving your drink from the bartender, you make to head back to Steve without giving Bucky another glance. But then there’s a hand grasping your upper arm. The indignant glare in your eyes meets the confusion tainting the blue in his.

“Wait,” he pleads, hand still on your arm, “Will you just talk to me. What did I do?”

Gaze roaming over every inch of his face, gauging the expression on it—genuine curiosity.

“You really don’t know?”

He silently shakes his head and you roll your eyes, jerking your arm out of his hold.

“Goodbye.”

Turning to leave him, the intensity of his stare is felt on the back of your head and prickles your skin.

Eventually, the night winds down and you’ve managed to steal some one on one time with the birthday boy before you head home. Sitting at the bar with Sam, sharing drinks and conversations, you’re truly content for the first time tonight since talking with Bucky.

“Good birthday?” You ask after a sip of your cocktail.

“Mm,” Sam hums, nodding his head. He places his beer back on the bar, hands clasping together as he glances to you. “Always a good time when I can get all my friends together.”

It’s your turn to hum and nod because you can’t exactly agree that tonight was a good time for you.

“Well, I’m happy you had fun.” You force a smile in his direction, but then your attention is stolen by two people making their way out of the bar and your expression falls.

Sam, always the more perceptive friend of your group, follows your gaze just in time to see Bucky and Natasha exit through the front door. A defeated sigh escapes him and he drops his head.

“You two still playing this game?” He picks his head up, a contrite look shading his features.

It was through Sam how you met Bucky all those years ago. He was your study buddy through college and Bucky was his roommate. The attraction between you and Bucky was obvious from the start, and Sam was the number one cheerleader for the two of you getting together.

However, as the years went on and the heartache outweighed the happiness, Sam would voice his guilt for pushing you both together so much. But you would always assure him you and Bucky would have found your way to each other eventually, and nothing was his fault.

“Not anymore,” you reply flatly.

Sam’s eyes widen in surprise. “No?”

Shaking your head, you sip at your drink.

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say, sometimes the people we like don’t like us back, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” you remark in a mixture of sadness and frustration. “So, I’m moving on.”

Quietly, Sam regards you for a moment. His deep brown eyes consider your profile because you can’t find it in yourself to look at him right now. The pity on his face is enough to have you crying, and you’re tired of crying over Bucky.

“Well, if tha—“

“Why does he stay with her?”

The question cuts off Sam’s words, and he’s startled not only by the interruption but the context of it, as well.

Your hope to not cry anymore is lost, and glassy eyes are looking to your friend for an answer you’re sure he doesn’t quite have.

Exhaling deeply, Sam takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Conversations about Bucky and his relationship with Natasha have been had before, but it's obvious to Sam this one might be a bit different.

“I think…” another long sigh before Sam continues, “I think he’s scared—”

“Scared of what?” You nearly scoff, finding it absurd there could be a genuine excuse for Bucky’s actions.

“Well, if you’ll let me finish,” Sam remarks in muted jest, sure to give you an eyebrow raise.

Bringing your lips together in a tight lipped you smile, you wave for him to continue.

Sam fixes you with a look that’s asking if you’re going to actually let him continue without interrupting, and you nod your head as you wait to hear what he has to say.

“I think he’s scared of how much you really mean to him,” he finally states. His eyes linger on you before shifting to the bottle of beer in front of him. Thumbs scratching at the damp label as he continues. “Barnes has always been…reluctant when it came to you. I think a physical relationship was all he could ever give because he had this idea in his head that he’s not good enough for you.”

You remain silent as you digest Sam’s reasoning, and then you’re shaking your head in annoyance and rolling your eyes.

“He’s such a pussy,” you remark before downing the rest of your drink.

“Well, I…I can’t argue with you there,” Sam chuckles. “The guy’s always kind of been a pussy.”

The beginnings of a smile are pulling at the corners of your lips, but it does nothing to mend your broken heart. Because even if Sam’s words are true—that Bucky believes he isn’t good enough for you—he still went home with her and left you behind. Again.

Later, the closing hours of the night find you back home, naked and wrapped in sheets with Steve. Limbs and tongues entwined, his soft touches and gentle caresses elicit sinful moans. And despite his thickness filling you up with a pleasurable feeling, there’s no denying it’s different.

Trying to forget and just enjoy the attractive man in your bed, you find it’s difficult when your mind takes every chance to remind you it isn’t _him_. The muscles of this back aren’t as bulky, shoulders not as broad. These lips, although supple and delicate, are not as plump and a bit awkward against yours. And these hands are too soft; no tiny callouses to draw out goosebumps that tingle your skin when they run over your body.

But every time your mind takes you back to _him_ , you painfully remind it you are no longer his. Tonight you’re someone else’s.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been too long without you. Too long since Bucky has been able to see you, talk to you, just _hold_ you. If he would’ve known the last time he was with you would’ve been the last time, he might’ve done something. Did more to convince you that he cares, said more to assure you he really is yours.

The three weeks after he last saw you might have been the longest of his life. No contact, not even a text from you, and it was killing him. To go from talking everyday to complete radio silence had his head and heart hurting, and stomach twisting in knots of nausea.

He tried to reach out, to understand what happened, if he did something. But his efforts were left unanswered and he eventually gave up. Finally accepting you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

He isn’t stupid. He knows what he’s doing is wrong, and it’s hurting you. Always calling upon you to fill the void in his heart that Natasha never could. But he can’t help himself. He’s a selfish bastard and he knows it.

A constant is what you’ve been for him since the first time you met. His person that brought him happiness and support, comfort and yes, love. Again, he isn’t stupid. He knows you love him, that you hope one day he will finally gather enough courage to ask you to be more than a friend. But he never finds it and he hates himself for it.

Because as he got to know you, Bucky realized he would never be good enough for you. His examples of a loving, caring relationship growing up weren’t ideal, and he never figured out how to fully give himself to someone. The best he could offer you was something physical, and when you took it, he ran with it.

Then he met Natasha. This beautiful, flirty redhead at his gym, someone who he could try to make a relationship work. She wasn’t you. He was always painfully reminded of that fact when she looked at him or smiled at him. Her looks never as endearing, and her smiles never as comforting.

It was obvious their relationship wasn’t truly going anywhere. There were hardly any conversations about what the next steps would be. Move in together? Get a dog together? Even Natasha was aware their future was murky. But she stayed, probably because she’s just as insecure and too scared to ask what his intentions really were.

And for some reason he stayed, too. Pushed through the mediocre connection for what, he doesn’t honestly know. Maybe to prove to himself he can make a relationship work, but that was a bust after the first argument, then the countless ones after that. Plus, you were always there to pick up the pieces, and habits are hard to break.

So now he sits like a fucking pathetic piece of shit staring helplessly at your contact information on his phone. Lost, miserable, _heartbroken_.

When he saw you with _him_ the other night, he knew. It made him sick to his stomach and he knew what needed to be done. He broke up with Natasha that same night, and since then he’s been pussy-footing around getting into contact with you.

He wants to text you and call you, but it’ll be futile considering how you reacted to him at Sam’s party. Not to mention the weeks you ignored him leading up to that night. He knows you owe him no explanation and have every right to cut him off without a single reason why. He’s expected you to be there for him and selfishly taken from you countless times.

He just really fucking misses you.

Knowing you won’t bother to answer his texts or calls, his last option is to go to you. The only hope he has that you won’t slam the door in his face is knowing you have a hard time saying no to him. He’s taken advantage of that in the past, and he’s going to do it one more time.

Knuckles gently rap against the wooden surface of your door. A shaking fist is lowered to his side, clenching and unclenching as he impatiently waits for you to answer.

The sound of the door harshly opening brings his eyes up to meet yours. Anger and resentment reflecting in the colored specks and he’s suddenly forgotten how to speak.

“What?” Your voice is hard, venom-like and nearly unrecognizable.

He’s seen you pissed off before. Like the time you lost a promotion to an ungrateful prick at work. Or when you got into a fender bender right after buying your new car.

And he was there for you. Consoled you, as a friend, and reassured you everything would be okay. But this time is different. This time you’re pissed at him and he isn’t so sure everything is going to be okay.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

His blue eyes make quick to scan your features. Annoyance wrinkles your brow, remorse has your lips scowling, and a conflicted sadness resonants across every corner of your face. Almost in relief he’s come to you, but also wishing he would’ve just stayed away. And maybe he should have.

How did he let it get this bad? How could he hurt _you_ this bad?

“I…I…” The words stick to the inside of his mouth, mind blanking on anything that’s worthy of being said.

“You what?”

Defensively crossing your arms over your chest, he knows you’re half a second away from shutting him out for good.

“I just want to talk,” he quickly rushes out, desperation evident in his tone and pleading eyes.

There’s a moment of silence. Then you turn on the ball of your foot, leaving him to follow you inside.

“Make it quick,” you say. “I have a date in an hour.” You add the last part nonchalantly over your shoulder as he closes the door, and the air in his lungs catches in his throat.

Following you into the modest living room of your place, you remain standing and don’t bother offering him to take a seat. This really will be quick, he thinks.

Silently, you fix him with an expectant look, waiting for him to start. Bucky is slightly thrown off at your refusal to speak first, but then again, he did show up here unannounced.

“Uh, I just…uh, I miss you.” His tone is soft, unsure.

But you scoff and roll your eyes, and his heart is hammering away in his chest as he helplessly watches you slip through his fingers.

“I do,” he affirms with a bit more confidence. “And I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

He blinks at your unexpected questioning.

“Why what?”

“Why are you really here?” You ask again, tone unwavering.

Bucky’s mouth opens to respond, and again, his mind falters on what to say that won’t dig this grave any deeper. But you cut him off before he’s even able to form a coherent sentence.

“Is it because you’re afraid you won’t get to have your cake and eat to it, too, anymore?”

“Wha—no!” Indignation creases his brow, voice the loudest it’s been since arriving here because he’s just so frustrated with himself for letting it get to this point. “Y/n, no, that’s not it at all.”

“Then _why_ , Bucky?” Now your voice is beginning to waver. A pleading desperation cracking through the syllables. “Why show up here after I’ve made it very clear that I’m done with this,” a gesture of your hand to the space between the two of you, “and I’m trying to move on with someone else. I can’t do this anymore.”

He sees it happening—farther and farther away you’re falling from him, and he can’t stop the words quick enough before they tumble out of his mouth.

“Do you love him?”

“ _What?_ ” You seethe.

“I said, do you love him?”

“How dare you.”

“I need to know, Y/n.”

“Seriously? Fuck you, Bucky!” You exclaim, dropping your arms and letting your hands slap loudly against your thighs. “I can’t fucking believe you! How dare you show up here and then ask me—“

But the rest of that sentence dies on your tongue when Bucky speaks again.

“Because I love you.”

You freeze, snapping your mouth shut as you stare directly at him.

“What did you just say?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Swallowing thickly, Bucky gives himself a second to calm his nerves before repeating the confession.

“I love you.”

The clenching of your jaw is obvious, the irritation evident as it darkens your features.

“Fuck. You.”

Eyes wide in shock, Bucky opens his mouth to protest, but you’re quicker.

“You see me with another guy, trying to move on and be _happy_ , but you can’t let me have that, can you? I can never get what I want with you, so when you think you’ve lost your fuck buddy you show up here and say that to me? Hoping it’s what I want to hear that will bring me back to you? Really? _Fuck. You._ ”

He winces at your words. How could he be so stupid?

His confession wasn’t meant to anger you or push you away. It wasn’t some selfish card he decided to pull when he realized you weren’t coming back to him.

No.

It was a last ditch effort from a desperate man who was scared shitless of losing the woman he loves. Forever.

“Do you even know what you did?”

Your voice brings his attention back to you. The exasperation that clouded your features has melted into a pained look of sorrow.

Wordlessly, Bucky shakes his head, body tensing as it prepares for the inevitable shame your answer will bring.

“The last time we were…together,” you begin, eyes falling to the floor, and he can see the reflection of tears on your soft cheeks. “You said her name.”

It’s all you need to say, and his face is crumbling.

_Fuck._

“I…It…” He should just give up now. There’s nothing he can even say to make up for calling you another woman’s name. Another woman he doesn’t even fucking love. 

“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he sighs, already accepting defeat. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t... I don’t know what else to say. I...I was drunk and I just... I’m...”

_I’m a fucking idiot._

Words are lost, mind racing because he knows this is it. He’s lost you over a stupid drunken mistake that should’ve never happened.

The stillness of the room has him on edge. Tension building, he’s turning to leave, but then it’s broken by your next words.

“Did you mean it?”

Breathlessly looking to you, his heartbeat picks up at the lifeline you’ve just thrown him. Even though he doesn’t deserve it.

“Yes.” He’s nodding earnestly and takes a step towards you. “So much. I love you so fucking much, Y/n, it hurts.” When he notices you haven’t recoiled at his approaching figure, he takes another step. “And I’m such an asshole and a piece of shit after everything I’ve done. I don’t deserve you, I know that, but I just want to make it up to you.” Another step, then another, and he’s about a foot away. “If you’ll give me the chance, I’ll make everything up to. I love you.”

Now that he’s this close, he can see just how badly his words and actions have affected you. The brightness in your eyes is gone. Replaced with a dull emptiness shadowing the heavy bags under your eyes. From lack of sleep and crying, he’s sure.

Clenching his fists at his sides, he stops himself from smoothing out the wrinkle in your brow, and presses his mouth together to resist kissing away the scowl on your lips.

“Please, Y/n, I—“

He doesn’t get to finish his last plea because your lips are crashing onto his, and he wastes no time. Pulling you into his body, his hold is tight, afraid you’ll change your mind and push him away again. But you don’t, and he sighs in relief when your arms wrap around his neck.

Lips moving in desperation together, Bucky can’t get enough. It’s like the first sip of water after a long hot summer’s day, and he has been parched for too long. His tongue slips out to deepen the kiss, but then you suddenly pull away and all hope he just found is lost all over again.

“Wait,” you exhale, “Are you still—“

“No,” Bucky intently confirms.

“Really? When?”

“Sam’s birthday.”

“Oh.”

Your moving in for another kiss, but then your question reminds Bucky, and now it’s his turn to pull away.

“Wait, do you have—“

“No.”

“No? When did yo—?”

“Sam’s birthday.”

He doesn’t even try to hide the smile on his face when he brings you back into his embrace.

Bodies move in sync to your bedroom, a breadcrumb trail of clothes left along the way. Falling together onto the bed, contact is never broken as a fit of giggles comes over the two of you. Playful nips turning to fervent kisses. Sensual touches lighting a fire over heated skin. Wanton moans reverberating against the walls that have seen you both like this countless times before.

But this time is different.

This time there are no outliers—it’s just you and him. And he wants you to know it.

“I’m yours,” Bucky breathes against the shell of your ear. “Always been yours.”

There’s a faint taste of salt on his lips and he realizes you’re crying. He kisses away the pain and heartache, until his lips find yours again. He conveys a silent promise through a deep, passionate kiss.

He’s yours.

He’s always been yours, and will continue to be yours for as long as you’ll have him.

And when he slides into you, arms tight around your waist and face buried in the crook of your neck, a relieved moan falls from his lips.

He’s finally home again.


End file.
